5-29-15. Tiberias, Israel
The moment I realized that my hotel rented bikes, the itinerary I had planned for today went out the window. I had been itching to ride; and having finally reached a place where cycling was not tantamount to suicide, I was determined to take a break from my regimen of ruin hunting. Reading in my guidebook that a trail was under construction that would ring the entire Sea of Galilee, I immediately decided to circle the lake. Brief research on the internet assured me that this trip (a little over forty miles) could be easily completed in 5-6 hours – provided, of course, that one had a decent bike. Rising early, I went out to survey my hotel’s stock of rentals, and was dismayed to discover that they were all aging mountain bikes, designed for short-distance trail riding. Though free of any truly fatal flaws, the bike I was given proved to be absolutely incapable of travelling more than about 10 mph, even down hills; pedaling uphill was nothing short of an ordeal, even in the lowest gears. Worst of all, the seat – even for a hardtail mountain bike – was magnificently uncomfortable, and would eventually become agonizing. My choices, however, were limited; so I bit the bullet, hopped (with a slight wince) onto the iron pommel, and squeaked away downhill at a walking pace.
Despite the almost immediate challenge of a series of hills, the first few hours, on the Sea’s northwest shore, were very enjoyable. This section of the lake, closely associated with the ministry of Jesus, features a remarkable concentration of churches commemorating events in the Gospels. After riding through Magdala (home of Mary Magdalene), where a tiny archaeological park is overshadowed by a mammoth shopping center, I parked my bike in the little village of Tabgha, the site of two interesting churches. The first and more impressive of these occupies the traditional site of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. The present church, built in the late nineteenth century by German monks, is distinguished by the beautiful mosaic floor of its Byzantine predecessor. The chapel next door, on the spot at which Jesus is supposed to have appointed Peter the head of his disciples, is a simple building situated in an idyllic garden. I stood for a few minutes on the pebbly beach beside the chapel, enjoying the fresh breeze, until driven away by the approach of a group of Italian schoolchildren. After an abortive attempt to cycle up to the nearby Mount of the Beatitudes, which proved to involve a four kilometer uphill climb, I chained my bike to a tree and simply walked up the hill along a narrow gravel track.
The twenty minutes or so I spent walking up this road were probably the highlight of my day. The track was lined on both sides by tall dead grass, sighing and bending in a strong breeze. In one direction, the fields mounted up toward the dome of the Church of the Beatitudes; in another, they framed a spectacular view of the Sea of Galilee, dappled by passing cumulus clouds.
After this walk, the Church of the Beatitudes itself – the pleasant chapel on the traditional site of the Sermon on the Mount, set amid beautifully landscaped grounds – was almost anticlimactic, not least because it was packed to bursting with coachloads of tourists.
The site of Capernaum, only a kilometer down the road, was equally packed, but more historically interesting; besides the ruins of a house traditionally associated with the Apostle Peter (now virtually concealed by a hideous modern church), I was able to see (and walk through) the remains of an imposing late antique synagogue, possibly located atop an earlier building mentioned several times in the Gospels. The houses excavated in the vicinity of these two monuments were remarkably humble, little more than straggling cottages built of the local basalt.
After Capernaum, my ride became considerably less enjoyable. I passed over the River Jordan – at this point in its course, little more than a stream – and into the area still officially known as the Golan, taken from Syria in 1967. Dusty signs warning of landmines, mementoes of this conflict, began to appear along the highway. By this point, however, I was more concerned with topography than with history; the road was mounting into the tall and barren hills that hug the lake’s eastern shore, and I was exhausted and sunburnt by the time I reached halfway point of my ride, a high overlook almost directly across from the white buildings of Tiberias.
As I progressed southward, I passed an increasing number of beach resorts, nearly all filled with Israeli families camping over the weekend. Sweating and sore, I longed for a beach; but there was no time. I took two short breaks over the last four hour leg; but by the time I reached my hotel in Tiberias, eight hours to the minute after I left it, I was more than ready to return the bike and find a café with a Slurpee machine. There are perks to staying in a tourist trap.